


Hollow Bones

by theherocomplex



Series: Love From a Gurney [5]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, F/M, Romance, reversed ending, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: It’s better not to talk back. It just gives them ideas for next time, and I don’t want to make their job any easier. If they’re going to break my heart, they’re going to work for it.





	Hollow Bones

**Author's Note:**

> What _were_ the illusions like, before you found Julian in the Hanged Raven?
> 
> Warnings for: depression, unreality, mental/physical abuse, alcohol mention, body horror. Spoilers for everything.

Used to be I’d stop tasting whatever was in my glass after the seventh or eighth rounds, even if my poison of choice for the evening happened to be Salty Bitters. Now, each drop burns like the first, searing its way down to the knot in my gut that never, ever leaves.

At least I can still get drunk, after a fashion, though it’s less like the misadventures I can almost remember on the good days, and more like slowly drowning. After a certain point — usually around the time I think my heart might finally stop, the world spins itself into a noxious blur and I wake, hours and years later, with a fresh stein in front of me.

I try to put the first drink off as long as I can. Not because I’m trying to punish myself — that’s covered, quite nicely, by my absent host — or because I feel any need for self-control. I put it off because sometimes, in the moments between my eyes opening and taking that drink, I can remember.

Today, I remember food. Simple things, like fresh butter and fried mushrooms and roast chicken. Nothing fancy, just the things we ate when we were kids —

_who’s we_

I almost see her — a flash of red hair, a smug laugh — and then the memory shatters, leaving me with a handful of echoes and the taste of salt, deep in my mouth.

No point in chasing the memories down. Once they’re gone, they’re gone, till the cycle begins again and I have a few minutes to myself. To be myself, in spite of all the evidence telling me otherwise.

I close my hand around the stein without looking, and lift it from the table — by the way the liquid within the glass moves, I can tell it’s one of the more esophagus-scouring menu items — but as my mouth closes awkwardly around the rim, I hear the door begin to open.

_no no no no not yet not again I’m not ready_

I swallow what I can, tipping the stein until the drink spills down my neck and matts my —

_hair_

_—_  feathers to my skin, but it’s not enough. I wasn’t fast enough. And now the door is open, and a footstep falls on the broken glass.

Here’s the trick: I remember what I can, as fast as I can, and then I drink until I’m sick because maybe,  _maybe_ , I can escape what always comes next.

It hasn’t worked yet, but you won’t blame a man for trying, will you?

_not a man_

I wet my lips and brace my hands against the table. The footsteps creep closer — if I didn’t know better, I’d call them unsure. I hold my breath and hope — no praying here, they don’t make it past the front door — that this one won’t speak. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they just watch until their time runs out.

No such luck.

“Julian. Julian, is it you?”

It’s almost — it’s almost close enough. The voice snags my heart, like a fish hook snares unwary prey, and I’m turning, turning before I stop myself and press my head into my hands.

“Oh, my heart. What’s happened to you?” Now I know it’s not her; she smiled at me all the time, each curve of her lips a gift I never thought I deserved, and now know I didn’t — but the smile in the voice filling the tavern is too sly for her, too full of petty malice.

It’s better not to talk back. It just gives them ideas for next time, and I don’t want to make their job any easier. If they’re going to break my heart, they’re going to work for it.

“My dear, dear Julian. All alone. How have you survived here? Oh, Julian…”

The illusion purrs and croons as it stalks toward me, feet crunching over the glass. I have to give the Devil credit; he’s getting better all the time. It sounds so like her, it sounds almost kind.

I swallow in a dry throat. There won’t be another drink till this little charade is over. The Devil likes me to feel each little gouge as he carves out my soul. “Go away,” I say, and instantly regret it when I sense the illusion’s delight fill the room.

“But I came so far.” God,  _god_ , the note of hurt in her voice. I know it so well — I hurt her so many times, before the end. “I came for you. Won’t you turn around, Julian? Jules?”

I stiffen as a cold, cold finger traces my pinion. They don’t usually get so close, but sometimes —

 _blood on black feathers, laughter in the eaves_ ,  _and no light, no end, not anywhere_

— sometimes they like to play.

“Look at me, Jules.” The voice warps on the last word — I hear Lucio, I hear the Devil, I hear her screaming as the Devil drags me under — and then a sweet, chiming laugh wraps around me. “Look at me, dear one.”

I don’t. I can give myself credit for that much: this time, I don’t look.

“You just want to hurt me,” it says, leaning close enough to breathe against my neck. God, I almost lean into its touch — it’s been so long since I was touched by anything but glass and talons, so long I howl to the sky, which doesn’t care and never will — but I catch myself, just in time.

It’s not her. I’m never going to see her again. A scream builds in my chest, seething along my new, lighter bones, but when I open my mouth, all that leaves me is a weary sob.

She’s gone. All I can hope for is that she is somewhere better than here. I’ve given up on hoping she forgives me.

“I missed you,” comes the whisper, icy breath sliding around my neck. “Let’s play, Julian.”

Chill fingers pinch the feathers at my throat. Nails pierce my skin — and then it yanks its handful free, giggling to itself.

I hold still as it plucks out another, and another. It’ll get bored soon, and these illusions never last long. Soon, it will just be another pile of broken glass on the floor, and the cycle will begin again.

“She’s not coming, you know,” says the illusion, pulling so sharply my voice betrays me and I cry out. At last I’ve discovered the limits of my tolerance, and it has nothing to do with pain, only intent. “She’s never coming. You did all this, and you’ll never even know if she’s safe.”

“I know.” I slump forward while the illusion coos and laughs behind me, its fingers always plucking.

There are some things I never forget.

***

I hear the door begin to open. How lucky for me — this time I’m three steins deep, and my head is full of pleasant mothy shadows. If this illusion decides to follow in its sisters’ footsteps, I won’t feel the pain till they’re gone.

The illusion gasps. Instinct makes me turn my head.

And oh,  _oh_. It’s the closest one yet. Even the eyes are right this time, and the plush curve of her lower lip. It has her gentle, clever fingers. I remember them in my hair, for one terrible, lucid moment, and on my chest, and then I remember she will never touch or love me again — and I would take any pain, any pain at all, if it would replace the chasm in my chest.

“Julian,” she says, tears already wetting her lashes.

I can’t resist this time.  _Come sit, come drink, welcome, welcome._ I pour nonsense into the air — maybe if I talk long and stupidly enough, this illusion will come crashing down and I can destroy all conscious thought in peace — but she comes forward, crying openly now, reaching for me —

This is different. This is — not  _wrong,_ but not right either. She smiles, something like hope lighting her face, and I think, for one heartbeat,  _it’s her_.

It’s not. It never is. I loved her as best I could, and I still couldn’t do what was right. And when I fought, I only earned myself this.

But — it’s the best one yet. I stare, and say her name to myself, and memorize each curve, each clean line of cheek and jaw and eye. Maybe this memory will last a little longer than the rest.

“It’s me,” she says. “It’s me.” And she reaches for me, fingers ready to pluck and stab, to leave behind a thousand tiny wounds all filled with ice —

I back away.

She follows.

“Julian,” she breathes. I breathe, and I smell her, sweet and alive.

My heart, it seems, will never stop breaking. I try to deny it — this is a trick, a vicious trick, and soon these eyes will lose any hint of kindness and my blood will mark the glass again.

But —

She touches me. Warm hand, rough calluses, the smell of herbs and sunlight. She looks so happy, so relieved. Like I’m all she wants. Like she’s finally come home.

I told her, once, I would know her touch anywhere. She kissed me for that, laughing, and we danced. I thought it was just another way I’d failed her — I’ve been fooled so many times before.

But warmth follows where she touches me, and she keeps smiling, keeps coming closer.

“It’s you,” I say, and she smiles again, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“It’s me.”

I take my first full breath in years. I remember sun. I remember the water, the brazen glow of light on the horizon. I remember everyone — I remember  _her_. And when I reach out, when I cling to her, she clings back, twice as hard.

She’s here. She’s alive. She’s  _real._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come talk to me on [Tumblr!](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com) <3


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